


Solace

by codewordpumpkin



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 23:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codewordpumpkin/pseuds/codewordpumpkin
Summary: A slightly different take on some events in S3.





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> There is no fetus Agnes in this fic. Liz never got pregnant.

Elizabeth thought it strange to see him still there.

She was certain that when she had arrived, he had been on his way out, loading his groceries into the back of his car. However, so pleasantly surprised to see him smile at her once again, she returned the gesture, ignoring the nagging feeling at the base of her gut. It had been too long, after all, since a stranger had looked at her with something other than fear or disgust.

“Elizabeth Keen?”

Realizing he was approaching her, she held her own bag of groceries close to her chest, awkwardly standing by her car as she nervously pasted on her best _friendly_ face.

But it was _his_ face that was no longer friendly.

Before she could really make sense of the sudden change, of the way his kind mask grew ugly with malice, his hard fist collided with her soft cheek, knocking her off balance and onto the cold, cement ground. Instinctively, she curled into herself, her arms caging her head. Even with her knees pulled up, though, she was basically defenseless as he landed brutal kicks to her torso, the force of the impact robbing her of breath each time. With one last stomp, he anxiously glanced around the lot, checking to see if anyone bore witness to his crime.

“ _You_ _’re a traitor!_ ” he literally spat, running off with his gaze turned low.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, crumpled in a bruised and bloody heap, wheezing shallow breaths as she choked on her sobs. Eventually, the tears on her face dried into salty tracks, and blinking her eyes open, she numbly observed the ruins of her groceries—eggs cracked, fruits spoiled, cans and boxes smashed and dented.

Liz probably could have stayed there all night, but the panicked voice of a young man asking if she was all right, if she needed an ambulance, if she wanted him to call the police… had her shaking her throbbing head.

“No, no… I’m fine, thank you,” she muttered—slurred, really—shaking her throbbing head as firmly as she could.

Too weak to refuse his assistance, she slowly unfurled her position into a wobbly stand. Shivering— _or was she trembling?_ —she realized just how cold she was, the crisp air biting into her burning flesh. She wanted nothing more than to go home, fall into bed, and maybe never wake up. With this goal in mind, she began digging through her purse until she found her keys. On unsteady legs, she walked towards the driver’s door—and would have fell flat on her face had the increasingly distressed man not been there to catch her.

“Miss, you can’t drive in this condition,” he said, physically blocking her way.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, not believing her own words.

“No, please,” he shook his head, “if you drive, you’re not only a danger to yourself, but to others, too.”

She sighed in defeat, knowing he had her.

Apparently, he knew, too.

“Is there someone you can call?” he asked cautiously.

She no longer had her father.

She never really had a husband.

She didn’t want anyone from the task force to see her like this.

And the one person she did want to see… the one person who wouldn’t hesitate to comfort her, to hold her in his arms, to keep her safe and love—

Well… that person wasn’t even in the country.

It was for the best, anyway.

“No,” she finally replied. “No, I don’t have anyone.”

He looked at her with pity.

She pretended not to notice.

“Let me at least get you a cab,” he insisted, already calling for one before she could respond.

The man stayed with her until the Uber came, even cleaning up her ruined groceries for her.

She thanked him as sincerely as she could, then allowed him to help her into the car, shooting his worried face a weak smile after he closed the door.

“Where to?” the driver asked, his eyes on the road in front of him, either ignorant of or purposely ignoring her miserable state.

She opened her mouth to give him her address, but it was an entirely different one that was spoken aloud.

* * *

 

Picking the lock with impressive speed, considering, she shut the door behind her and, using the little remaining energy she had, collapsed on the couch in a stumbling heap. As exhausted as she was, though, she couldn’t fall asleep. Maybe it was the pain that kept her awake—whether physical or emotional, however, was an entirely different matter. So, instead, she tried to enjoy the features of the house, the ones she loved just as much as _he_.

The air was still, the dust was settled, and the warmth of the moon crept into the cold of the night, breaking through the crevices of the bare branches and penetrating the thick pane of glass. The cushions of the couch were soft yet firm, strong enough to support her and encouraging her to relax. It also helped that they smelled like him. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine him sitting next to her, drinking one of the cloudy jars of distilled alcohol, reading her a supposed masterpiece written by none other than the great, unknown Frederick Hempstead…

She jerked awake at the creak of the door.

At this point, she couldn’t move if she tried, but somehow, she wasn’t afraid.

Somehow, she knew…

“Don’t,” she croaked as he moved to turn on the light.

He froze. “… Elizabeth.”

_Red._

“Did you know I was here?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.” A pause, then, “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You’re slurring,” he pointed out, though it wasn’t an accusation. 

“I thought you were in Germany,” she mumbled, attempting to draw his attention away from her.

 _Like that would work_.

He neared her with slow steps. “Yes, well, my business was resolved sooner than I had anticipated.” When he reached her side, he carefully sat on the low coffee table, trying and failing to get a glance at her face, for it was mostly covered by her arm. “I must admit, I was surprised to learn of your late-night visit… Is something wrong, Lizzie?” he asked, now openly concerned.

She stayed silent.

“Lizzie,” he tried again, the familiar gravel of his voice soothing the ache in her bones. “What’s wrong?”

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he would have to pry her arm away himself, she wearily revealed her face. The room was quite dark, but the moonlight illuminated her just enough for him to see that her normally flawless skin was now swollen and covered in sinister blobs of color, caked in scabs of blood.

He damn near choked on his tongue.

“ _Elizabeth_ ,” he growled urgently, his tone newly infused with anger and fear. “What happened? Who did this?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Liz—”

She sighed. “I don’t know, Red.”

At his intense urging, she told him what happened, humiliation burning her already hot skin.

“Where else are you hurt?” he asked quietly, breaking his tense silence.

Finally, she moved her gaze from the window to his face, not surprised to find his jaw clenched, his cheek twitching, and his eyes glimmering with pure, unadulterated rage.

It didn’t matter if she didn’t know her attacker.

Red would find him.

And then he would kill him.

Not once breaking eye contact, she slowly unzipped her jacket until it fell open. Inching up her shirt, she gradually exposed the rest of the grim evidence, holding the bunched up fabric at the curve of her breasts.

As if in a trance, staring at the unreadable map of color, his hand reached out until his fingers just barely grazed her skin. The shock of feeling his flesh against hers—regardless of how chaste the touch—made her flinch. Thinking he caused her pain, he instantly drew back.

“You should have gone to a hospital, Lizzie,” he mumbled, clearing his throat.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he snapped.

She didn’t back down from his chastising stare, her bruised features stubbornly set.

He sighed.

“Let me go get you some ice, at least,” he said, straightening to a stand. Just as he was about to take a step, however, she caught his wrist. He glanced first at her unexpected grip, then at her face, questioning.

“Just…”

She didn’t know how to voice her request, but he seemed to understand, as always. She relaxed by degrees, relieved when he warily retook his seat on the table. Still, she didn’t release her hold. And he didn’t seem to mind. After a few minutes spent in loaded silence, she asked the question that had been bothering her since their time on the run.

“How do you do it?”

Both pretended her voice didn’t break.

He tilted his head, studying her glittering eyes, the furrow of her brows. “Do what?”

“How do you deal with people looking at you that way?” She ignored the pain as she lightly bit the corner of her busted lip. “How do you go on knowing that these people—complete strangers—fear you, hate you?”

“It’s as you said: they’re strangers,” he replied, shrugging. “The people you’re talking about—the ones who think they know you—they really don’t know anything about you at all.”

She shook her head, not feeling too comforted by his consoling words.

“I’m not saying it’s easy to ignore the way people look at you,” he amended lowly. Then, after warring with himself, he added, “But I hope you can find some solace in the fact that when _I_ look at _you_ …”

 _I see my way home_.

He swallowed the emotions rising in his throat.

Hearing him say that, and watching the way he truly _looked_ at her, with love, adoration, _reverence_ , a soft smile curving his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes, she couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, the salty fluid both stinging and soothing.

Tired, emotional and vulnerable as she was, she shut her own eyes, but not before moving her grip from his wrist to his hand, tangling their fingers into a firm knot, her gentle squeeze telling him all that she couldn’t say:

_Thank you._

_I love you._

_Never let me go._

Brushing his thumb over her knuckle, he indulged in the feel of her hand in his.

 _For as long as you'll_ _have me, Lizzie._

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this actually took longer than I expected... (probably because I got lost in youtube/tumblr/instagram spirals ugh) but anyway, hope you enjoyed!


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